


I'll Eat You Whole I Love You So

by Cymbelines



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Allusions to Violence, Cannibalism, Established Relationship, Hand Feeding, M/M, and innuendos, murder fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 17:16:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5635234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cymbelines/pseuds/Cymbelines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There’s no blood to be tasted now,” Hannibal told him, watching as Will’s eyes anchored over the way his mouth moved with the words. “And, if there was, it wouldn’t be your own. The only blood between us now is that which we jointly spill.”</p>
<p>“You’ve given me my fair share of blood. There are other things now- more bitter, more yours- that I take into my mouth for you.”</p>
<p>Having settling into a comfortable and murderous life in Paris with Hannibal, Will still feels anchored to the past. Ever the diligent murder husband, Hannibal dedicates himself to easing Will's anxieties with time, devotion, and the fruits of a successful hunt. As requested, quiet moments and Ortolan-esque meal-sharing ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Eat You Whole I Love You So

Will Graham crossed to the nearest window, unlatched and opened the shutters onto the postcard perfect view of Parisian city lights. They had arrived home late tonight, harboring the waning adrenaline of another successful hunt. Crossing his arms over his chest, Will felt the beginnings of exhaustion nipping into his bones. He felt, too, unanchored. He felt a peripheral longing for things left behind. 

Hannibal knocked at the frame of the open door. He carried a basin of water with him and a towel hung over his shoulder, dutifully ready to play nurse. This wasn’t the first time Hannibal had tended to Will’s rough and bloodied hands and it wouldn’t be the last. “You’re far away, again, Will,” he spoke. “A penny for your thoughts?”

“I’ll give them to you for free,” Will sighed, walking towards the couch as Hannibal expectantly took a seat. “I keep looking back lately. There are things- stupid, trivial things- that I’ve lost and I want them back.”

"You're not satisfied with the lives we've constructed yet." His voice was mild, expectant of affirmation.  
  
Will hesitated, considered denying it. "I'm settling into a new life. It's not dissatisfaction, just waning discomfort. It's a lot like settling into a pair of shoes that way- I've still got to make my spaces."

“What empty spaces are you accommodating for, then? What do you miss from your old life?”

 Will closed his eyes. "I miss my house. I miss my dogs. Hell, I miss Wolf Trap- the local kids, the nosy neighbors, the lot of it.”

 “Tell me what I can do to make this easier.”

 Will opened his eyes but did not look up. He knew, through the intonation of Hannibal’s voice alone, that Hannibal would burn cities to the ground if he only asked him to. Something akin to pleasure fluttered in Will’s chest like a moth in the darkness.

 "There was this Italian shop I liked,” Will said. “The owner was nice enough- lived in the neighborhood for years, but he still spoke very little English. He’d make this prosciutto bread worth dying for. You’d have to get there early if you wanted to buy some before the day’s worth was gone. After I started working with Jack, I couldn’t find the time to go anymore. It’s been years.”

Hannibal listened to Will whisper on about the past, dipping their hands gently into the basin’s water. Swirls of a blood diluted into the clarity like smoke, the heat of the water soothing to broken skin.  
  
Hannibal thought on their freshly finished hunt. Their victim had been a terrible man, prone to channeling his violent tendencies onto those who depended most on him. It was a pleasure to kill him. It was a special pleasure to see monsters burned, to see them blackened and changed. It was an experience bordering the sublime to see such things executed by Will’s very hands, to watch his form darkened by the spill of sweat and blood. They moved together with the same animalistic unity they always did, tearing him down so effectively, so terribly, that the very walls that paid witness to their violence seemed to titillate in awe.

Once Will’s hand had been bandaged, they settled before the fireplace of their home. Pressed together before its warm glow, Hannibal felt his head spin with the fragrance that lingered over Will’s skin: the soap they shared, the aftershave Hannibal had bought him soon after their arrival in France, and, beneath that, the last traces of horror and exhilaration.

As Will spoke stories to him, his bright eyes set faithfully to the cackling fire, Hannibal thought on what a paradox his partner was. All outward timidity and guarded vulnerability, Will Graham was a creature of small comforts, nostalgic not for his family of stray dogs. And beneath that, Hannibal knew, was a monster like none other- a beautiful, diabolical creature that had just torn a man apart with bared hands and sharp teeth.

 Raising a hand to gingerly tuck Will’s curls away from his eyes, Hannibal hummed in contentment. The love he had for Will brimmed full and spilled forward, coloring the very air they breathed.

* * *

 Will considered the clothing set in a neatly folded heap over his bed. Their dog, new to their home and still only a pup, yapped curiously at Will, hungry for affection. Giving the Beauceron an absent-minded pat, Will expected the new clothes. They were beautiful, of course- a shirt of dark maroon and deep, navy trousers to match. Will frowned, racking his had for the special occasion he had surely forgotten about. Hannibal hadn’t mentioned any special plans. They had no places to be, no people to meet- tonight was, in fact, one of their rare nights in.

Uncertain though he may’ve been, Will took the cue. He showered, tried to do something passably presentable with his hair, and changed into the clothes Hannibal had bought him. He gave the mirror one last glance- his scar was faded by months worth of healing. His hair had grown longer, his demeanor somehow sharper and clearer than ever before. Will straightened against his reflection. Time had done away with old reservations and reluctances, leaving in its wake something entirely new. He had grown comfortable and satisfied with this life. He and Hannibal had made a system of their practices, not growing more careless with their kills but more practical instead. And above that, somehow, they had slipped into a mutually held devotion that Will could’ve never anticipated.

There were no more lingering glances, no more walks into the corridors of his own mind that led to the past. Will Graham was wholly and entirely present.

 When Will left his bedroom, a fresh and familiar smell hung heavily in the air. The warm and filling aroma of freshly baked bread. But there was something else to this- a scent that triggered a memory of some other time and place. When Will reached the kitchen, Hannibal was still busily at work.

 “You didn’t tell me you had a big dinner planned,” Will said, watching as Hannibal bent towards the oven. He was dressed well enough to match Will, his hair loose over his forehead, his shirt flattering over the wide expanse of his back. “The clothes- a new cologne, even. It’s not your birthday, is it?”

 Hannibal considered the question for a moment, looking up at him in amusement. “No.”

 Will frowned, considering the array of plates that were set over the dinner table a few ways off. “Well, it’s not _my_ birthday.”

 “A different sort of annual mark,” Hannibal smiled, presenting a tray of baked vegetables to Will for only a moment before walking towards the dinning table. “Today marks a year since we first settled into this place. One full, Parisian year.”

 “Can I help? There’s something else in the oven, I can take it out if you want-“

“No,” Hannibal replied quickly. Will froze, his hand hovering over the oven door. “I’m nearly done. You can take your place at the table, if you’d like.”

The pup yelped up at Will, her tail wagging playfully as she followed her owner out of the kitchen and into the dinning room. She settled by his feet as he sat down, taking in the sight of the food and decorum spread beautifully before him. Even after their most satisfying of hunts, Will couldn’t remember Hannibal preparing such a beautiful table set- dried flowers and vibrant fruits filled the vacant spaces between intricate and beautifully prepared dishes.

 Will waited sheepishly until Hannibal returned. When he finally did return, a dish presentably held in his hands, Will’s mouth dropped. Hannibal hadn’t just made any bread, he’d made Will’s prosciutto bread so perfectly, so exactly what Will remembered of Wolf Trap, that it was as if the man had jolted into that very bakery to bring this gift back to him.

 Hannibal smiled at the visible awe in Will’s face. “I’m happy to confess that I speak Italian rather fluently- well enough, at least, to understand exactly what this bread called for. “

 “You found the bakery. You made their bread,” Will said, gratitude dripping his voice. His face contorted in confusion. “But the baker there- the man I knew- he _died_. I called them a few months ago, when we were planning our trip back to the States. The place closed down months ago.”

 Hannibal took his seat beside Will, serving Will before tending to his own plate. He gave the table spread one last look of appreciation, before finally turning his proud smile to the man beside him. “I called the day you first spoke to me about it. I deliberated on the occasion to make this for you- I thought about doing this for you many times but decided, instead, on today. “

 Will felt himself at a loss for words. Catching Hannibal’s silent approval, he reached immediately for the bread, attentive to the way its rich smell flooded his senses as he raised it to his mouth. He closed his eyes with the first bite, awed by the preciseness of its taste. Absolutely and utterly delicious and, more than that, exactly how Will remember with a sole exception –

 “The meat,” Will sighed. “The bread is that man’s but you’ve made the prosciutto entirely your own.”

 Hannibal all but swelled with pride, pleased by his partner’s perceptiveness. “The method of tending to the meat is the same- a delicate and temperamental process. As it dries, the meat has to be gradually pressed and drained of its blood without breaking the bones they hang to. One has to take great pains to assure the room temperature is ideal, the you’ve used the right amount of salt and then, of course, there’s the issue of time.”

 Will considered him at length. “Time bears surprising gifts. If we rewind the passage of time far back enough, we wouldn’t be in the city or at this table. We wouldn’t be here, together, at all.”

“A gift in the truest sense of the word,” Hannibal agreed. “A gift cannot be earned. It works on the premise of grace- something wholly and utterly undeserved. With time, you’ve given me more than I once dared to imagine, Will. This is the least of what I can give you.”

Hannibal reached for a plate Will hadn’t noticed before, a plate with the prosciutto rolled delicately and presented alone. Before he could continue to serve Will, the air of a completed conversation hanging delicately in the air, Will laid his hand over Hannibal’s own.

Halted by the touch, Hannibal the distinct shift in Will’s demeanor. He rose his free hand cautiously, as if this were the very first instance of touch between them, and brought his thumb to the very corner of Will’s mouth. His eyes lingered there, darkness in his eyes, until he turned his attention back to the plate. Raising a shredded piece of meat to Will’s mouth, Hannibal watched carefully as his lips parted to accept the food from his fingers. His mouth was warm, his teeth a brilliant line of white under soft, full lips and that mouth- capable of poetry or curse, of affection or destruction- opened wonderfully to Hannibal’s ministration. The meat rested on his tongue for only a moment- weighty, salty to taste- before Will closed to savor, work, and swallow. Hannibal drank in the sight of Will’s face, flushed from emotion, the scarred skin of his cheek, and the dark fan of Will’s eyelashes as he demurely closed his eyes. He delighted in the pinkness of the other man’s lips, the demure bow-shape of his mouth, and the way Will’s eyes seemed spirited with some foretold emotion. Hannibal leaned in to him with phantom intention, as allusively drawn to him as a moth to a flame.

 “Do you remember the ortolan?” Will said in a hushed voice, as if baring a secret.

 “Our first shared act of sanctification.”

 “Sacrilege,” Will replied, half-correcting him. With careful deliberation, he reached for the plate and, pinching a tear of meat between his fingers, rose his hand slowly to Hannibal’s mouth. “You instructed me to swallow it whole. I could taste the iron of my own blood as I took what you offered me.”

 Hannibal drew his tongue out to dampen his mouth, the morsel of prosciutto suspended before the swell of his bottom lip. His eyes casted downward, the nearest Hannibal ever got to coyness, as Will refused him the meat and ran the flat of his thumb over the line of Hannibal’s mouth instead.

 “There’s no blood to be tasted now,” Hannibal told him, watching as Will’s eyes anchored over the way his mouth moved with the words. “And, if there was, it wouldn’t be your own. The only blood between us now is that which we jointly spill.”

 “You’ve given me my fair share of blood. There are other things now- more bitter, more yours- that I take into my mouth for you.”

“I've given you plenty to swallow then,” Hannibal smiled. The room nearly hummed with silent tension as they, drawn very closely now, gauged one another for movement and intent. With one last swipe of his thumb over Hannibal’s mouth, Will finally pressed the meat to his lips. He watched intently, as if entranced, as Hannibal’s mouth opened for him and closed, the sight of sharp teeth passing and going like a shadow.  
  
Will swallowed a sigh, pressing his palm to Hannibal’s cheek and feeling his jaw shift as he chewed. He had half the nerve to draw Hannibal to him then, to close the space between their mouths and taste the token of death on Hannibal’s tongue. It was dizzying, all together palpating, how Hannibal had a way of ensnaring and trapping Will, opening a hunger in him that seemed bottomless and dark.

“Plenty,” Will echoed, hushed and low, pleased when Hannibal nuzzled into the cup of his palm. He watched Hannibal’s expression shift with a dark, hungry recognition. “I think I could eat you whole.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, the-terminal-show, for beings so patient and gracious with me and my lateness. I hope you enjoy the fic and the Marlana watercolors that will soon follow! Until then, please know I was really wracking my brain over how to avoid any really lame jokes about meat and swallowing and all the like. Because, you know, I'm juvenile that way.


End file.
